quietly.
She kept her eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. She could hear the soft rasp of pencil on paper as he began to sketch.
Five minutes passed, then ten. The room grew warmer. She let her gaze drift toward him. He was bent over his sketch pad, his hand moving quickly across the page as he split his attention between her and what he was creating. She wanted to talk, to ask him something to dispel the uncomfortable awareness she was feeling, but he was so inwardly focused she knew conversation wouldn’t be welcome.
She forced herself to think of something else. Automatically her mind reverted to fretting over Andrew and her forced retirement from the company. There was no comfort to be found there, she knew. Instead, she started to make a mental list of her contacts in the various Paris-based ballets. She’d toured the country twice in her career and danced with several French soloists. Nadine, Jean-Pierre, Anna—they were just a few of the fellow dancers she could call on to ask for the favor of hooking her up with specialists. This afternoon, she would—
“Okay. Let’s try some variations,” Max said.
She blinked and let her body relax. “You’re the boss.”
“Third position this time,” he said, eyeing her body assessingly. His regard was slow, steady. “En pointe, for as long as you can hold it.”
“How long do you need?” she asked. She could hear the ego in her voice. He smiled.
“Not long,” he said.
He started sketching, then stopped. “Can you look up for me?”
She lifted her chin. He frowned.
“Try angling your head a little more to the left.”
She shifted. His frown deepened.
“It’s not quite right…”
He stood and moved toward her. She stiffened, quelling the odd urge to retreat. Almost as though she was afraid of him, of his touch. Which was crazy. This was Max, after all. Her friend.
She could feel the heat from his body as he stood in front of her, studying the angle of her head. With her hands raised high above her, her weight supported on her toes, she was as tightly strung as a bow. And very exposed.
He reached out and nudged her chin up with his finger. A little higher. A little more to the left.
“That’s good,” he said.
His gaze swept the rest of her body and she felt a quiver of awareness deep in the pit of her belly. That odd instinct to retreat hit her again.
Then he was turning away, striding back to his sketch pad.
She took a deep breath, then another.
“You okay? Warm enough?” he asked as he took up his pencil.
She realized her breasts had puckered again, her nipples once more begging for attention. She fought a wave of self-consciousness.
“I’m fine,” she said. “You just do your thing.”
He took her at her word. She heard the scratch of pencil on paper and closed her eyes briefly. She felt rattled, off balance.
She forced her gaze to the back wall, concentrating on a crack in the plaster.
This is Max, she reminded herself. Your friend. He held you while you slept last night. He’s always been there for you.
Slowly, by small degrees, she relaxed. There was no reason for her foolish awareness. Not with Max, of all people. He was like a brother to her. Always had been, always would be.
MAX TIGHTENED HIS GRIP on his pencil as he attempted to commit the curve of Maddy’s hip to paper. His gaze kept sliding from the subtle arc of her waist down the flat planes of her belly to the curls at the juncture of her thighs. A neat little patch, waxed into submission, just enough curls there to hint at the secrets they concealed.
His hard-on throbbed. He still couldn’t believe he’d let Maddy bulldoze him into this situation. But she’d been so determined to have her way. And he hadn’t been strong enough to resist the temptation she’d offered. Back in the days when they’d lived together, he’d sketched her. Lying on the couch, asleep. Dancing, the expression on her face full of joy. Laughing, her eyes closed, her head thrown back.
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